


Boundaries

by samzillastomps



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Banter, Fenris Needs a Hug, Fenris really wants to learn how to be as free with his touches as Hawke is, Fluff, Fluffy Ending, Friendship, Hugs, M/M, Pining, Purple Hawke, Romantic Tension, Skinship, Sweetness, a bit of a non-argument thrown in there, and fenris knows it, because of course they are, but don't worry there is also resolution, but he's more of a pastel hawke, have you read my other works?, he is a good boy that's why, he's got a lot of blue mixed up in there, i have a thing for pining, isabela and bethany are voices of reason, like some cavity inducing sweetness, lots of pining, rogue hawke - Freeform, sarcastic and charming is what he thinks of himself as, sighs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2019-03-14 22:36:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13599864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samzillastomps/pseuds/samzillastomps
Summary: 1. skinship, noun(definition from Wikipedia)In Japan and Korea, the term "skinship"  (スキンシップ sukinshippu) is used to describe the intimacy, or closeness, between a mother and a child. Today, the word is generally used for bonding through physical contact, such as holding hands, hugging, or parents washing their child at a bath. The earliest citation of this word appears in Nihon Kokugo Daijiten in 1971.2. personal space, noun(definition from Merriam-Webster)The distance from another person at which one feels comfortable when talking to or being next to that other person.//\\//\\//\\//\\//\\//\\//\\//\\//\\//\\It's hard to sort out where one's desires end and another's begin, especially when you're a charming fool with the best of intentions. But when it becomes obvious that he'll touch everyone except the brooding, handsome elf that he can't stop thinking about, Garrett Hawke needs to confront a few things. Namely the way Fenris' skin against his makes his heart race, and what he intends to do about it.





	Boundaries

The first time Garrett Hawke touched Fenris was a nudge on the forearm with his knuckle; Fenris had been admiring a trinket at one of the market stalls, lost in contemplative thought. Hawke knew he would never forget that moment, because when he’d grazed his knuckle along bare skin, the elf had flinched away from him. It was with such overt discomfort that Hawke had immediately apologized.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean- I was-" he'd cleared his throat to stop the words. "Just trying to let you know we’re headed this way,” Hawke remembered stuttering, pointing to where Merrill and Isabela were already meandering down the alleyway at a leisurely pace. He’d glanced down at the stall, at what Fenris had been admiring. It had been a dark obsidian amulet, shining black in the sun. Seemed his style. “Something caught your eye, has it?” Hawke had asked, trying to be jovial.

“No,” Fenris had muttered. “We should move on.”

Hawke remembered the way Fenris had straightened himself to glare at Hawke down the bridge of his nose, not quite confrontational but almost daring Hawke to mentioned the way he’d shrunk back. Hawke had chosen not to say a word. He had let Fenris trail behind him, where the elf seemed more comfortable, and had led them both to join the women who'd been outpacing them.

It had been like this since the beginning, since the first moment Hawke had uttered a reactionary compliment about Fenris' body upon meeting him.

Their working relationship progressed to a kind of easy friendship over the course of their time together, especially when Fenris showed a type of begrudging fondness towards Bethany. He was decidedly still wary of her and her magic, but he no longer made rude comments around her. Hawke would straighten his sister’s bangs when they sat down at the base of Sundermount to take a rest, fluffing her hair, and catch Fenris’ tiny eyebrow raise.

It must have encouraged Fenris to be warmer towards her, seeing how much she meant to Hawke. After a while, he would let her ask him more personal questions. Once, on a trip, he looked at the clouds with her and did not scoff at her wistful imaginings. When Bethany would offer Fenris part of her lunch, he would take it, and Hawke couldn't help but notice the way Fenris would avoid brushing his fingertips against hers; he would take apple slices with the pointed end of his claw-like gloves, or let Bethany drop a hunk of bread into his open palm.

But it didn't feel like an aversion to magic. More like an aversion to skin.

Hawke never mentioned it. Fenris’ marks, the lyrium in his body, might be sensitive and painful to the touch for all he knew. Whereas Hawke would grip Anders’ shoulder and shake him gently to show he was teasing, he merely gave Fenris a fond wink. Whereas he would take Aveline’s elbow and give in a reassuring squeeze if she was wringing her hands in restrained disquiet, Hawke would tell Fenris a joke or offer him a little smile in hopes of quelling the elf’s anxiety. He tried to keep his personal space wide where Fenris was concerned. He tried to ignore the way Fenris’ voice sent a ripple of anticipation through his very being. He tried to be distant without being cruel.

_Tried_ being the operative word.

Every once in a while, a mistake was made. Hawke would forget himself and lean into Fenris with his shoulder as he and Varric tripped over a long-winded joke at The Hanged Man. They would all be moving through a narrow passage and his hand would find the small of Fenris’ back to help guide him through the darkness, even as Fenris’ eyes flashed catlike and predatory in the blackness. Hawke would move to his companions after a parciularly nasty fight to check on them, and his hand would grip on the groove of Fenris’ collar as the elf’s eyes raised to meet Hawke’s own. He would ask if Fenris was alright, and the elf would set his jaw and nod, and Hawke would have to resist pressing his forehead forward to rest against the other man's.

Every time he got too close, Hawke would apologize. They would separate. They would dance back. But strangely enough, Hawke began to notice that it was _he_ who stepped away, not Fenris. And when he would touch the elf, Fenris would still flinch, but the look in his eyes was not one of ill-concealed disgust. Instead, he seemed flustered, almost in a pleased way. No longer as if he were about to rip into Hawke’s throat with his bare hands. Tolerant.

But it was hard to discern where Hawke’s projection of his own desires ended and Fenris’ true feelings began.

So, like any fool, Hawke started to ignore him harder. He fought off the urge to nudge up against him or throw his arm around Fenris’ shoulders as they wandered. He would still call upon Fenris to join him on every rendezvous, on every excursion, but he would not let himself get too close. He would engage him in conversation as much as possible, but then shy away when Fenris would roll out his bedroll on the outskirts of their encampment. He couldn't resist how he felt around the elf, but he could just barely resist touching him.

And until the second fateful day back in the market, Hawke thought he was doing them both a service.

Bethany was too smart not to have noticed. Hawke knew that she was too naive to not bring it up, either. She mentioned it back at Gamlen’s, when they were helping their mother hang the washing in the dusty air outside.

“Why do we bother washing them?” Hawke joked. Bethany chuckled, handed him another clothespin, but when he went to take it she pulled back.

“Brother,” Bethany murmured. “Tell me something.”

“In return for a clothespin?” Hawke teased. “There are others, you know. I could just take one of those and keep all of my secrets.”

“No, I don’t want any secrets,” Bethany smiled despite herself, and then tilted her head. “The other day when we were at the market, with Fenris and Varric, you weren’t talking much. Were you alright?”

“You’ll have to be more specific,” Hawke evaded, “that doesn’t ring any bells.”

It did ring a bell. A rather resonous one. It had been two days ago at the market, and it was the second time he and Fenris had come close to breaking some unspoken boundary between the two of them.

It had started off innocuous. Hawke had gone to pay for a new set of gloves when a bare palm had touched his wrist. He’d lowered his hand, blushing like an imbecile, and Fenris had sneered at the shopkeep while keeping his hand gently closed about Hawke’s forearm.

“You’re overcharging the man,” Fenris had said blithely.

“I beg your-” the blustering shopkeep had been interrupted by a shake of the head, and Fenris had turned to Garrett with unflinching eyes.

“Hawke, if you’re in need of gauntlets, Varric has a pair he’s been carrying since we got back from Sundermount. Unless this charlatan is willing to admit he’s priced these way too high, and perhaps negotiate a lower price?” he had accused, turning back to the shopkeep.

“Piss off, knife-ear,” the shopkeep had spat, and Fenris had flicked Hawke a little smirk.

“I rest my case. Talk to Varric.”

Hawke had talked to Varric, his forearm sensitive even after he’d pulled the secondhand gauntlets over his wrists. And that memory was still just as clear as when it had happened, down to the aroma of burnt cedar lingering in the air as it mixed with the pitchy resin of new tar smell near the foundries.

Even as Bethany asked him about it, as he lied about not remembering it, Hawke felt too warm at the mere thought. He flexed his hands in the fingerless gloves Varric had given him, clenching and unclenching his fists as if he was working the leather.

“Any way you could specify?” he reminded his sister, who was looking him over as if she absolutely did not believe him.

Damn. Sometimes he worried his sister knew him too well.

“You were going to buy those fancy embroidered gloves you had your eye on, but then you asked Varric for the pair he was about to sell instead. Then, once he gave you the gloves, you sulked about it for the rest of our journey.”

“I wasn’t sulking,” Hawke protested, and at least that part was true. He’d been too busy musing about how warm and calloused Fenris’ hand had felt at his wrist to focus on sulking. He had only realized he’d passed up the opportunity to get those pretty teal-threaded gauntlets later that night, when he was at Gamlen’s listening to everyone else in the shack softly snoring. It had left an unpleasant taste in his mouth.

“You’re doing it even now,” Bethany accused, laughing. She handed over the clothespin and Hawke took it from her, grateful for something to do with his hands. “You know, Fenris told me he talked you out of buying the gloves.”

“He did, did he?”

“Well, I overheard it, anyway.”

“Eavesdropper,” Hawke accused. “You’re taking too much after big brother, I fear.”

“Shush you. I went to go meet Isabela for a chat, and he was there with Varric. He looked… I don’t know. He always looks upset. But this mood of his didn’t seem to be directed at you, or Varric."

"Isabela, then?"

"No. You're being difficult."

"Sorry," Hawke bit his lip. "Continue."

"I don't rightly know. But he looked like he was thinking hard. Maybe his anger was directed more inward, like he was frustrated with himself?” Bethany sighed. “He said something about how he wouldn’t have talked you out of it if he’d known you were going to look so disappointed.”

“I like these gloves,” Hawke lied. He didn’t really. He liked the memory of Fenris’ hand on his. He liked even more that the elf had pointed out a rational option, instead of letting Hawke blindly pay what was _easily_ triple what the stupid fancy gloves were worth.

“You should tell Fenris that,” Bethany said, fishing out two more clothespins. “I think he was worried yesterday that he’d overstepped some sort of boundary between you two.”

In a way, Fenris had, Hawke mused. He’d passed over the line of ‘talk but don’t touch’ that Hawke had drawn in the sand very respectfully. Afterwards, Hawke had done what he always did; he put distance between them. Again, respectfully! He couldn’t stress that enough!

Hawke spent the rest of the morning laundry hanging and not-sulking with his sister. As she spoke of little interactions she’d had throughout their explorations at the docks, he tried his best to listen. But his mind kept returning to Fenris, and how much he had to think about himself around the elf.

With his other friends, he gave no thought to hugging them to his side in playful happiness, or flicking hair out of their eyes as they conversed over drinks, or throwing them compliments that either made them blush or laugh without thinking. He’d been this way with his siblings growing up, and with his companions back in Lothering, and it was natural to be this way still.

But with Fenris, it felt… heavier. Each little thing felt… more. Even though the elf seemed to be warming up to him, the knowledge that Fenris had thought of him past their face-to-face interactions was a shackle to Hawke’s movements. He could barely take the last few washcloths from Bethany’s hands without dropping them to the dirt.

It was torturously distracting, to say the least. It was the kind of thought that ached in an almost pleasurable way, a thought that Hawke wasn’t meant to entertain. A secret, something Hawke should’ve been used to, given his past.

_What if Fenris likes me as much as I like him?_

The thought was always fast and fleeting. It came to him unbidden and left only when he confronted it, like a sneeze that hid at the edge of your sinuses. Hawke couldn’t shake it. He tried to run errands for his mother. Then he had a job to complete at the docks, a quick recon for an old friend that he made the mistake of inviting Aveline and Merrill along with. They were so empathetic that he was unable to shake their concern, no matter how he joked or teased. It was exhausting. That night, Hawke decided to head to The Hanged Man by himself, hoping for either distracting company or a strong drink to take his mind off of things.

He found both when he found Isabela hustling men at the bar with a Rivaini card game. With all her other suitors gone, trounced to the point of embarrassment, Hawke stepped up to take over. After he lost three rounds to the temptress, they retired to their back corner table and had a few drinks. They shot the shit. The night was young. They laughed and ordered another round. And for one stupid moment, Hawke thought he was in the clear and wouldn’t be thinking of the elf with the intense stare for at least a few more hours.

His mouth almost reflexively sabotaged him as soon as the thought crystalized in his mind.

“You like Fenris, right?” Hawke asked Isabela before he could help himself. He paused, barely able to track where the question had come from, lifting his ale up to his lips but not drinking.

Luckily Isabela wasn’t perturbed in the least.

“Mmm, you overheard my mulling over his pretty eyes, did you?”

“It was hard not to, you know.”

“Maybe I wanted you to hear,” she teased. “Did it make you jealous?”

“Oh always,” Hawke chuckled. “You incorrigible flirt, you.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“I’m not a flirt,” he replied, even though it felt a bit cottony on his tongue as he spoke, almost like a lie. “I’m just personable.”

“Is that what you call it?” Isabela gave a throaty laugh. “You should tell Fenris, that, then. Spare the poor man some agony.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hawke said, narrowing his eyes at his friend. This was the second time that day someone had suggested Hawke seek out the elf. He swallowed hard. “Is Fenris suffering?” he asked, genuinely concerned.

“Each time you look but don’t touch. Obviously. Or have you not noticed?”

Hawke sat there, speechless, unable to even flick out a retort before Isabela continued.

“Because for the rest of us, it’s hard not to. Especially seeing as you are more than a little handsy with everyone else. The way you embrace us every time you say goodnight, it’s a huge red flag that you don’t hug Fenris as well. I imagine,” she leaned pointedly over the table, her eyes glinting with mischief, “that he is beginning to feel pointedly left out.”

“H-he told you this?”

“With his lovely sad eyes,” Isabela cooed. “Not so much in words, though, no.”

“Hmph.” Hawke swished his tankard about a bit, looking up at Isabela with narrowed eyes. “Are you sure you aren’t just teasing me, then?”

“If I wanted to tease you, I’d make fun of the way you blink too fast when you’re about to lose at cards.”

Hawke laughed, and watched as Isabela grew quiet.

“I thought about it,” she muttered finally. “About why I cared, mainly.”

“Mmm. And why do you?”

“Partially because I don’t know why you’re torturing the poor thing,” Isabela purred. “But mostly because I want you to keep doing it.”

“Bit cruel of you.”

“Not at all,” she said sweetly. “He’s ever so beautiful when he’s glancing away from you, trying not to look as if he’s pouting, his entire body an absolutely rigid brooding mess. Maybe if you keep from touching him long enough, he’ll seek out other methods of skinship from the rest of us. He’ll turn to those of us who aren't afraid to grip harder, to hug fiercely, those of us who know how to slick up our bodies with oils and-”

“Alright, I get it,” Hawke interjected, a bit gruffer than he’d meant to. Isabela watched him, smirking, and he squinted over at her. “You’d really bed him?”

“I’ve bedded broodier,” she said with a shrug, lifting her tankard for a swig.

“I’m going to tell him you said that.”

“No you won’t,” Isabela countered, setting her sweet wine down. “Because you like him. And because you know you don’t want to admit it to him.”

“Look, Isabela. You’re… not wrong.”

“Aha. Tell me something I don’t know, you big softie.”

“Hardy-har, point taken,” Hawke grumbled. “But you have to understand, I don’t push him away out of dislike. Or shame. Or lack of desire. I just…”

The Rivaini set her tankard down as Hawke hesitated, regarding him with golden eyes and a fierce air of scrutiny. He swallowed hard.

“Fenris doesn’t like to be touched,” Hawke said with difficulty. Without thinking, he tacked on, “Least of all by someone like me.”

“You’re sure about that, are you?” Isabela murmured, one eyebrow delicately raised.

“I’m holding back for his sake,” Hawke stated, but it felt like an indelicate way to put it. Like it was an excuse instead of an explanation.

In truth, Hawke didn’t know what Fenris wanted from him. He had never asked. He got the sense that he was tolerated by the elf, much as one would be tolerated by a feral cat; so long as he didn’t touch, every once in a while he might be rewarded with a lack of scratches. Hawke drank deeply from his ale, lest he think too much on that. Isabela, to her credit, did the same with her wine and allowed him to keep the dignity of his lie.

If she intended it to be a catalyst, Hawke wasn’t going to allow it. He knew how twisted, how playfully and almost glibly manipulative Isabela could be if she put her mind to it. She almost always had positive motivations in mind, but he wouldn’t put it past her to be seriously asking to be set up with the elf.

Fenris and Isabela. Now how would that work? One who didn’t like to be touched, paired with someone who only thought of touching? For some reason, it made his chest feel too cold, as if his heart were pumping seawater through his veins. He didn’t much care for the thought, even though he knew both would treat the other well enough should it play out that way.

He ignored the idea of their coupling as best he could that night, ignored it as he walked home a bit tipsy from the Hanged Man, ignored it through Lowtown, ignored it through Hightown. Hawke ignored it right up until he found himself pacing the cobblestone outside of Fenris’ mansion.

“Shit,” Hawke muttered, dragging his hands through his hair, down across his beard, scratching gently as if he could ruffle some sense back into himself. He probably smelled like ale and laundry detergent, looked like death, and felt like an idiot. Now was not the time. Much as he wanted to confront Fenris, to ask if he was interested in Isabela, to tell him he liked Varric’s stupid gloves, now was not the time.

As he was turning to go back to Gamlen’s house to ask his sister to talk some fucking sense into him, Hawke heard a door swing gently open.

“Oh. Hawke.”

_Shit!_

“Yep,” Hawke whirled, holding out one hand in a jaunty wave while the other stayed on his hip. “Fenris. Hi.”

“Hello,” Fenris narrowed his eyes, and Hawke could see them reflect the moonlight, two bright discs in the dark. “Are you alright?” the elf inquired.

“Y-yeah,” Hawke shrugged, then realized his hand was still in the air from his wave. He set it onto his hip then swallowed hard. “Perfectly great. Why do you ask?”

“You seem…” Fenris’ voice lowered, “twitchy.”

“I’m not. I mean,” Hawke shrugged, trying to make his bulky frame work to his advantage. “I was just patroling. You know, bad people out on the streets. Even here in Hightown. Never can be too careful.” He sniffed hard, glancing away, but he could barely hold back an eyeroll at his ramblings. That was his downfall. His own rambling had caught him in so many corners already tonight, he didn’t need to pin himself where Fenris was concerned.

“Right,” Fenris said. When Hawke turned back to the elf to say goodnight, he was already moving down the front steps of the manor. “It’s a good thing for you I came along when I did, then, isn’t it?”

“It is?” Hawke asked, immediately dropping the bravado and staring at him, wide-eyed and hopeful. “You’re… did you have plans for tonight, Fenris?”

“I was about to go to The Hanged Man for a drink and a conversation. But I can follow you, if you’re about to go off on your own.” He inclined his head slightly, glancing up through his white tresses. “Don’t want you to get ambushed alone.”

“I’m a shadow in the night, messere,” Hawke teased. “They’ll have to outsneak me to ambush me.”

“Again. Don’t want you to get ambushed.”

“Ouch,” he laughed. “Spare me a bit of pride, will you?”

“Fine. If we’re being honest, I wouldn’t mind your company for a few hours,” Fenris muttered, sounding as if he minded it very much in this moment. His mouth was saying he wanted to be with Hawke, but his facial expression was set in a grim mask of someone who didn't want to do anything of the sort. Or didn't want to admit it aloud.

“Sure you wouldn’t prefer Isabela’s?” Hawke asked, barely keeping petulance from his voice.

If he noticed the whine with which Hawke asked, Fenris didn’t show it. He shook his head.

“I have no knack for gambling, even less of a knack for flattery. You’re less likely to encourage me to bet my entire coinpurse on your sleight of hand.”

“That takes care of the gambling,” Hawke teased. “What about the flattery?”

“I can't say that I will be able to keep up with the likes of you,” Fenris murmured. “But I have practiced, as I told you I would. I still don't have any wine to offer you, however.”

Hawke snickered to cover the sense of relief he felt. Instinctively, now that he was more at ease, he took in the elf’s posture for the first time. His own nerves faded as he took in Fenris’ slumped shoulders, the way he rolled his neck and shifted his back. The elf looked pained, or at the very least annoyed. Hawke recognized that look. It was one he embodied often himself since Carver passed.

“Can’t sleep, can you?”

Fenris’ eyes widened a bit, as if surprised Hawke cared enough to comment.

“No, I can’t,” Fenris sighed. “I feel too cramped in the house.”

“All the space weighing you down?” Hawke asked, teasing a bit. But when Fenris said nothing, he suspected that it might be actually the case and sobered slightly. “You know, I get that.”

Fenris shot him a glance with a raised eyebrow.

“Hey, I do!” Hawke grinned rakishly, or tried to. His smile fell flat, hanging from the edges of his lips before it faded away. He glanced off into the alley behind him, checking for ears without even thinking about it. “It ah… took getting used to the space Carver left behind. In conversation. In the house. Just kind of everywhere.”

“Mmm,” Fenris nodded, and when Hawke looked back at him, he had stepped closer. “Lead the way, then. We can avoid the empty spaces for tonight at least.”

“Do you…” Hawke cleared his throat, then tried again. “You’re fine with it just being us? You don’t want to invite anyone else?”

“What are you implying?”

“I don’t know, just that you might not want to be alone with me,” Hawke stammered, trying to find out why it sounded so rude when he had the best intentions. “I’m terribly dull when it’s just me. I run out of conversational material so quickly, I resort to awkward gestures and obtuse observations about the weather.”

Fenris’ eyes narrowed, and he gave a scoff.

“I know,” he said. “I’ve seen you when you’ve reached your conversational limit. I don’t mind silence.”

“Maybe we could invite someone else just to be safe. Not Isabela, though,” Hawke murmured, rambling aloud, not even realizing he was painting himself into a worse and worse corner with every word. “Just someone to provide you some relief when I reach my mental limit.”

“It seems that you already have,” Fenris muttered.

“I mean, I still have a few-”

“Do you not wish to be alone with me?” he asked, his voice clipped but still managing to stay low and polite. “If so, say the word and I’ll take my leave.”

“No! No, it’s not that-”

“If this is about the gloves, Hawke-”

Hawke’s brain malfunctioned, almost as it had with Isabela. Instinct took over. His body acted of its own volition, and he immediately resorted to a gesture he did with his sister when she was cross with him. Hawke reached out and took both of Fenris’ hands in his, holding them to his chest in a supplicant manner.

“The gloves are fine,” Hawke said, giving Fenris’ hands a shake up and down in the space between them.

The elf had stopped trying to speak, was merely staring at Hawke in the darkness with wide eyes and what looked like a frozen sneer. As if he could not believe that Hawke had grabbed him, and could believe even less than he wasn't yanking away. Hawke carried on with his rambling, unable to stop.

“I’ve been meaning to speak with you about them, actually. I wasn’t sulking after you talked me out of it,” Hawke blurted, oblivious to the way Fenris’ hands hung limply in his. He moved his thumb across the cool grooves of metal on the back of Fenris’ knuckles, hoping it would accentuate the honesty of his words. “I promise I wasn’t. I thought it was good of you to call me out on such a frivolous purchase. Especially when we need to save for the expedition investment.”

“Then why did you avoid me after you didn’t buy them?” Fenris asked, his voice quiet.

Beneath Hawke’s fingertips, he could feel Fenris’ hands clenching lightly into fists. For a brief moment, he wondered if the elf was going to punch him. It seemed like something he deserved, oddly enough. He wouldn’t mind a light tap, if it meant Fenris was alright with touching him. Maybe because in that moment, as they stood with their hands awkwardly caught in one another’s in the shadow of the trees planted mid-walkway in Hightown, Hawke saw what Isabela had seen, what Bethany had overheard.

Fenris was thinking about him in the small moments. He wanted to draw closer, and Hawke was not letting him. He was trying, and Hawke was avoiding.

“Hawke,” Fenris said again, harsher this time. “Tell me why.”

_Because I want to kiss you so badly that I don’t know if I can trust myself around you,_ Hawke thought, so clearly and plainly that for a moment he was worried he’d said it out loud. If he had, he knew Fenris would’ve retreated already, but he was still here, his hands before him in loosely clenched fists, his expression unreadable in the shadows, silence hanging between them like smoke.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” Hawke said quietly. “By avoiding you, I mean.”

Fenris made a _tsk_ against his teeth, finally moving to pull his hands away. Hawke let him, too stunned at the direction the conversation took to do much more than watch as Fenris paced in place.

“You didn’t mean anything by it? Then why do you do it? I’ve begun to wonder why you continually ask me to accompany you if I make you so uncomfortable. You should leave me behind, rather than asking me to stay by your side if you’re just going to-”

“I’m not uncomfortable, Fenris, I-”

“Either you’re lying now, or you’re a fool who doesn’t even realize what he’s doing. Neither of which are options I desire to waste my time on.”

Fenris moved to turn and walk away, but when Hawke followed a step after him, the elf put out his hand.

“Stop. I’m done. I don’t want to argue with you, and I need to not be here right now.”

“H-here, as in Hightown?”

“As in by your side,” Fenris said coldly.

Hawke frowned, his lips parting in silent protest. Fenris, to his credit, did not leave on that note. He waited, as if giving Hawke opportunity to say goodbye. Or to dig the hole deeper. But Hawke’s brain had not yet reset, and he didn’t know what else he could say to save the conversation. Frankly, he wasn’t quite sure where it had even derailed to begin with. Maybe Fenris was right. Maybe he was a fool.

“So you’re just leaving?” Hawke asked.

“I am.”

Calm. Neutral. As if it were the most natural thing in the world. Maybe the touch that had electrified Hawke to his core had meant less than nothing to the elf before him.

“Why?” Hawke asked, feeling like an idiot. “Weren’t you going to help keep me from getting ambushed on my patrols?”

Fenris paused, the phrase seemingly hitting something within him. After one long moment, where Hawke debated what he would even say should Fenris cave, the elf half turned to address Hawke over his shoulder.

“You made it clear that you can handle yourself just fine without me,” Fenris said finally, and he was gone before Hawke had a chance to retort, headed in the direction of The Hanged Man.

Hawke considered following him. He knew Isabela was there, and Varric was in his room editing some manuscript. He could make up some excuse to see his other friends, to force the proximity, to provoke something more than this lackluster non-argument.

In the end, though, he felt that this was a deserved and minor punishment. It wasn’t as if anything Fenris had said was unfair or untrue. Hawke had admitted that he hadn’t meant to hurt Fenris’ feelings, but he hadn’t actively thought about them either. He had convinced himself that he avoided touching the elf because he didn’t want to hurt him, but Hawke was beginning to think the reason was more cowardly than that. Confronting just how much Hawke wanted to be close to Fenris was almost more difficult than being close to him and not being able to reach out to him. He wandered the streets of Hightown alone, despondent and in his own thoughts, until the sun’s rays began to color the sky a hopeful peach.

He was not ambushed. It was a damn shame.

Hawke returned to Gamlen’s as quietly as he could manage once his stomach began to grumble for breakfast, chiding himself for the baseless hope that stung him in his chest that he would encounter Fenris on his way home from the pub. More than likely Fenris had gone back to his empty space already. Maybe he had decided to stay in one of the rooms at The Hanged Man, but that was less likely. Hawke realized belatedly that he had avoided all routes in Hightown through the night that would have prevented him from accidentally running into someone leaving The Hanged Man. Whether he’d done it purposefully or not, he couldn’t say. That was what Fenris’ point had been, right? That he did these things accidentally didn’t make them any less hurtful, or any less stupid.

When he approached Gamlen’s house, he expected to hear nothing in the pre-dawn hours. He was lucky that his family usually rose early but kept quiet until midday, preferring to solitarily wake up at their own pace. He could go inside, go to bed, and try his best to let sleep find him. Hawke sighed, trudging up the steps with heavy footfalls, his mind alive even though his body was fatigued, but just before his hand closed around the handle, Hawke heard a voice from within.

“You could just wait for him,” Bethany was saying, her voice a bit muffled. “I could make us some more tea.”

“No, thank you,” a man said, and for a moment Hawke didn’t know who it was. But then the voice continued, more recognizable. “I shouldn’t take up more of your time.”

“Oh, Fenris, stop,” Hawke’s sister said, moving close to the door.

His heart stopped. Fenris. At his home. Visiting his sister. Who was near the door.

Wait! Was she going to open it? Hawke flinched right, then left, looked backwards, then practically dove down the steps into a roll, covering himself in dirt just as the door cracked.

“You’re welcome here any time.”

“So long as your uncle’s still asleep, you mean?”

“Shush,” Bethany chided him. “Well, at least Mother likes you.”

Then she giggled.

From his spot on his belly in the dirt, Hawke felt bitter envy course through his veins. It was quickly followed by relief; Fenris liked Bethany enough to converse with her politely even though she was a mage, and Bethany obviously felt comfortable enough with Fenris to smile. That was… something.

“You’ll tell him I stopped by, then?”

“Yes,” Bethany said, sounding as if she had already promised to do so more than once.

“Many thanks,” Fenris said, his voice tight, seemingly mustering through any unpleasantness by clenching his jaw around his words. The door closed, and Hawke righted himself just as Fenris began to walk down the steps.

Garrett Hawke, usually a master of charm, leaned one shoulder against the corner of the wall by the bottom of the steps and watched the elven warrior approach. Before he could say anything, Fenris rounded the corner going the opposite way. He was looking at his feet, wrapped up in whatever his thoughts were, and he completely overlooked Hawke posing at the base of the stairs.

For a second, Hawke waited, thinking that the elf was going to come back. After a heart-pounding moment, however, Hawke realized Fenris was wandering further and further away, and he was left looking like more and more of a smug asshole in the shadows. He pushed off from the wall, letting his feet fall just hard enough on the steps to alert Fenris to his presence. He even threw in a throat clear for good measure, hoping that Fenris would overhear and just assume Hawke had only gotten home in that moment.

It didn’t even take a heartbeat for Fenris to jog immediately back. Hawke couldn’t decide if the elf’s expression was exciting or intimidating. His eyes were intense, as if he had geared himself up for some type of confrontation, and Hawke wasn’t sure if it was going to end in bruises or not.

“Fenris,” Hawke said, stepping away from Gamlen’s house. The elf approached with his fists at his side, and when he got close enough, Hawke could smell sweet wine on him.

_Isabela._

“You’re home for the night, then?” Fenris asked, greetings skipped in lieu of more direct questioning. Hawke nodded.

“Only just.”

“Good. I want to talk to you,” Fenris said. His voice was low, measured, as if he was worried he would come off as intoxicated if he wasn’t very careful. Hawke nodded.

“I’d like that.” He glanced around briefly. “There isn’t much privacy in my place-”

“I saw. Your sister,” Fenris paused, his shoulders relaxing a touch. “She made me some tea while I waited for you.”

“Oh?” Hawke grinned despite himself. “Did it taste like mint?”

“Yes.”

“How delightful. She served you the tea she normally reserves for hangover cures. You should sleep well tonight when you head back to your place.”

Fenris averted his gaze, a muscle on the side of his jaw flexing beneath the skin. Hawke laughed.

“So, you had some tea,” Hawke stepped forward. “You had a bit of chat with Bethany, I assume.” He took one more step, closing the distance between himself and the elf so that hopefully Fenris would look him in the eye for what he said next. “And now, I hope you’ve come to let me apologize to you.”

“I-” Fenris’ eyes shot to Hawke’s, dissent unvoiced but evident. “You, apologize to me?”

“Yes.” Hawke eyed him. “Wait. Why did you come to find me if not to make me apologize?”

“Because I had a talk with Isabela,” Fenris said carefully, his voice rough. “She agreed with me and said that you are an idiot.”

Hawke frowned, hurt. But then Fenris tilted his head and their eyes caught once more.

“She also said that I was being difficult. That you mean well. And that when I was calmer, to seek you out.” Fenris took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and in a low baritone uttered three unconvincing words. “I am calm.”

Hawke chuckled despite himself.

“Right. Until I piss you off again.”

“You do have a knack for putting your foot rather far into your mouth at times,” Fenris muttered. “It is a wonder you still manage to drink past it.”

“I’ll try to keep my feet firmly on the ground during this conversation, how about that?” Hawke said, giving Fenris a little wink before he could stop himself.

Fenris paused, as if annoyed at the gesture. But then, almost as if his mood had shifted to amused, he said with a smirk, “Speaking of drinks and inappropriate phrases.”

“Was that what we were speaking of?”

“Isabela also asked me if I wanted to play a round of Wicked Grace with her.”

“A dangerous proposition, where Isabela’s concerned.”

“Indeed. She insisted we bet our smallclothes rather than coin, seeing as I was unwilling to part with my sovereigns.”

“So,” Hawke frowned, “you declined her invitation, right?”

Fenris smiled, obviously enjoying whatever expression Hawke wore. It was as if he had decided, once Hawke flirted with him, to dangle the situation in front of him. To torture. Or to prove a point. In the early morning hours, the light of dawn skipping over his cheeks, Hawke was positive Fenris could see the twinge of jealousy dancing over his features. He cleared his throat.

“I’m going to be the bigger person here and ignore this information.”

“Good,” Fenris said. “Because that’s exactly what I did with Isabela’s invitation.”

Hawke burst into a smile before he could help himself.

“Oh,” he breathed. “Good.”

In the silence left after that awkward rebuttal, where the satisfaction and relief must have been equally evident on his face, Hawke found himself feeling like a fool once more. He shifted his weight from hip to hip, trying to figure out the best way to say what he needed to say.

“Fenris. I realize that I give off an almost…” Hawke racked his brain, sighing as he thought, “an almost flippant approach to most conversations.”

“To say the least.”

“But the times I’ve praised you, the comments about how handsome you are, the fact that I ask you to accompany me every chance I get,” Hawke couldn’t contain a smile at the way Fenris’ eyes lit up, however briefly. “I meant those things. They were said in the moment, sure, but they’re not untrue.”

“Thank you, Hawke.”

“But I had a chat with Isabela too, while we’re being totally honest.”

“Oh?”

“She told me that I was… leaving you out,” Hawke confessed. He wasn’t sure if Isabela would mind him quoting her so directly, but judging by how fond she seemed of both Hawke himself and Fenris, he doubted their pirate queen would bat an eyelash at the mention. “Am I?”

“You are constantly dragging me to all manner of places,” Fenris said, his voice low. “These past few days have been the first I’m expected to sleep in my own bed. If you were leaving me out, I daresay I’d be home more often.”

“No,” Hawke paused, swallowing. “She meant from physical affection.”

“I know what she meant,” Fenris said. For a moment, Hawke wondered if that had been Fenris’ particular brand of deadpan sarcasm, one he usually reserved for conversations with Varric. Before he could comment, Fenris continued with a sigh. “You do. But I understand boundaries when I see them. I’m not a child at a nursery,” Fenris said dryly. “I do not need to be included in every rhyme to feel as if I am a part of the group.”

“You flinch when our skin touches.”

“I- I try not to!” Fenris blurted, seemingly taken aback that Hawke would say it so openly. His brow furrowed, his teeth bared, he looked beautifully flustered. “I thought I was doing better about it.”

“What?”

“I… realize that I give off the impression that I am uncomfortable with physical touches. Bethany told me once that I act as if I’m burned when my skin comes into contact with another’s. But it’s not the case. You don’t hurt me when we touch,” Fenris said, seemingly struggling to get the point across succinctly. “I am merely not used to such sensation. So I have been… trying to acclimate to it. Slowly. I thought you wouldn’t mind my testing the waters, seeing as you’re so free with your gestures in relation to everyone else, but I get the impression I was wrong.”

“Wrong? No! I haven’t minded at all,” Hawke breathed. _I’ve treasured each time._

“Your words are contradicted by your actions. You back off every time we happen to bump elbows.”

“I… I thought that was what you wanted.”

“You never asked me what I wanted.”

“Tell me how I should touch you, then,” Hawke said immediately without thinking.

“Don’t phrase it like that,” Fenris bit out, glancing away. “I merely wish to know where we stand, where the boundaries lie. I do not appreciate being strung along only to be danced away from.”

“Do you mind if I touch you now?” Hawke’s voice was rough, laden with meaning he shouldn’t have let slip, and he struggled to recover. “I mean, the way I do everyone else?”

“I… don’t know.” Fenris paused, frowning at the sandstone steps beyond Hawke’s shoulder.

“I’ll be gentle.”

Fenris scoffed.

“As I said, I am not accustomed to such things. Part of me wonders if I wouldn’t react better to a fistfight.”

Hawke clenched his jaw to keep from blushing, keeping his face as calm and neutral as he could. His thoughts were decidedly wicked in that moment, a happy thrum within him echoing through his core.

“We can do that, if you like. But I daresay it would be an unfair fight. I don’t know if I could stand to push you away.”

“I don’t want to hit you, Hawke,” Fenris said. He paused, then added, “Not very hard, anyway.”

“Well that’s good. Let’s save that for a special occasion, work our way up to it. For now, I have something simpler in mind.”

Fenris blushed, or seemed to anyway. His brown skin grew a touch pinker, darker about his ears and neck, the flush rising to his cheeks as he growled out a rebuttle.

“If you’re about to suggest that we go back to Isabela, then you-”

“Come here,” Hawke said, stepping forward and opening his arms.

He expected derision. Perhaps for Fenris to step backwards and shake his head, or to put a reflexive arm up, but for some reason the elf did none of those things. Hawke watched his face fall, his lips parting as if he had something to say but had immediately forgotten it. Fenris, the man Hawke had watched brood through Kirkwall for the last few months, looked as if he were moved.

But then the expression fled. Fenris closed his eyes, took in a deep breath, and when he let it out he trained Hawke with a pinning gaze.

“If you try to pick me up the way I’ve seen you pick up Merrill, I will end you.”

“Noted,” Hawke said with a chuckle. He gave his arms a little wave.

“I am alright without this,” Fenris said, unflinching in his stoicism. “You need not bend to what I want merely because I want it. I do not want you to think of me as some plush toy that needs hugging at every opportunity.”

“What if I’m the one who needs hugging at every opportunity?”

“You’re so damn difficult.”

“Fenris,” Hawke said, shaking his head lightly, “I don’t-”

Before Hawke could finish the thought, Fenris had moved forward and leaned against Hawke’s chest. Immediately, Hawke wrapped his arms about Fenris’ shoulders, holding him firmly against his body. Hesitantly, one hand stayed on Fenris’ shoulder, and the other came to rest gently, unassumingly, on the back of the elf’s neck. For one heartbeat, the elf merely rested against him in a heap of limbs, but then he seemed to remember what hugs actually consisted of. When Hawke felt Fenris’ arms tighten at the small of his back, when he felt Fenris’ hands slide up his spine to better settle into the embrace, he couldn’t help but inhale deeply. He let his fingers delve deeper into white hair at the base of a neck that felt too tight, too stressed underneath his seeking hands.

They sighed simultaneously, fitting themselves to one another instinctively. Fenris seemed to melt against him, as if he had wanted this for some time. Hawke tried to catalogue the details of the moment, tried to replace the details of the day Fenris had first flinched away from him with how Fenris clung to him now. The feeling of Fenris' fingers clutching at Hawke’s leathers. The way his hair smelled cleanly of almonds and castille soap. The sound of his easy breaths against Hawke’s collar, and the way he allowed Hawke to rest his cheek against his temple.

Hawke wasn’t sure who pulled away first, but he found himself rather abruptly watching as Fenris smoothed down the front of his armor, as if brushing off dust from the encounter. Hawke looked down at himself. He was rather dingey from his panicked tumble into the dirt earlier. He mimicked Fenris, brushing himself off, avoiding the other’s gaze.

“That was… not unpleasant,” Fenris said quietly, and Hawke glanced up with a grin.

“It’s a good thing you’re fond of idiots, I suppose.”

“Try not to make a point of it,” Fenris said, and Hawke marveled that in the rising morning sunlight, Fenris’ smile was one of the most handsome he’d ever seen. “The others will get cocky.”

“Uh-huh,” Hawke whispered, lost.

Fenris looked as if he was going to laugh at him, as if he enjoyed the attention Hawke was finally bestowing upon him, and luckily before Hawke could put his foot in his mouth Fenris was already speaking again.

“Get some sleep, Hawke. We are to make our way to the Bone Pit later today.”

“Still want to come with me?”

“Try to keep me away,” Fenris replied. It did sound like a challenge, one Hawke had no desire to try and test.

“Wish you didn’t have to go back to Hightown,” Hawke said as he made his way up the steps to Gamlen’s. “I’m a decent hugger, but I’m even better at spooning.”

“Goodnight, Hawke,” Fenris said sternly, already walking away, his ears darkening a deep red.

“Good morning, Fenris,” Garrett said to himself, and he entered the house with a little smile on the edge of his lips.

“Brother,” Bethany greeted him immediately, glancing up from the kettle. “Have a good night?”

“No, but this morning has been nice.”

“Oh good. Fenris was-”

“I caught him,” Hawke said. “Thank you for entertaining him, magelet.”

“Not at all,” Bethany answered, shaking her head. “He looked so distraught, all I could think to do was make him some tea. I don’t know how helpful that was.” She wiped both hands on her skirts, using the folded corner of her apron to move the pot of breakfast porridge over the edge of the hearth. “Is he alright now that you talked?”

“He’ll be fine, I think,” Hawke said, his chest too tight as he recalled the clean smell of Fenris’ soap at his cheek. “I’m going to sleep. Wake me for lunch, okay?”

“No breakfast?”

“You can keep a smidge of cold porridge for me if you’ve the inclination.”

“Fine. But don’t get grumpy when I wake you in a few measely hours. We’ve got to-”

“Bone Pit, yes. I remember, love,” Hawke said, cutting Bethany off with a kiss to her forehead. She frowned at him, but let him leave. As Hawke closed the door to his room in the rundown home, he could hear her beginning to cook the rest of breakfast. She said it calmed her, and insisted it was better than Hawke’s attempts at soupy stew. Their mother must be folding the washing, or possibly writing more correspondence to the viscount. Either way, the house was slowly filling with positive morning energy, just as Hawke’s heart was filled to the brim with an incandescent hope.  Hawke shed his boots and leathers before collapsing face first into his cot, the weight of the conversation he’d had with Fenris finally catching up to him.

His last thought as he drifted off to sleep was of the way Fenris had clutched his waist close, and the way he’d allowed Hawke to nuzzle against his temple for the briefest of seconds. Next time, Hawke decided, he wouldn’t pull away. He would grow braver, warming up to the sensations as Fenris did. Their boundaries weren’t much clearer, but they had shifted, allowing for Hawke to admit what he had held secret.

_Fenris likes me as much as I like him. Possibly more._

And with that desperate, beautiful image in his mind’s eye, Hawke drifted off to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> So I was playing through a run with rogue pastel-purple Hawke absolutely in love with Merrill, until I began to take Fenris out with me everywhere. Especially with Varric, you got to see a side of him that wasn't super broody-moody all the time, and I wondered if maybe he didn't WANT physical fondness. Maybe he just didn't know how to ask for it.
> 
> I didn't necessarily want smut (don't necessarily NOT want it, but there is an abundance of it) so I wrote this little thingum instead. Just two friends who like each other more than they think the other likes them, who want to hug, who want to touch, and who just don't know how to initiate without feeling weird and defensive.
> 
> Sidenote-- I romanced Merrill my first playthrough, and she is absolutely lovely. But after I wrote this, I turned right around and began a Fenris-getting campaign with a mage. So if you're fond of this one, hope you'll like the others I've got ideas for in the future <3
> 
> Side-sidenote-- during my Merrill playthrough, Isabela got with Fenris and it's what inspired this convo, ngl. Okay done for real now.


End file.
